Write Drunk, edit sober
Those words always encompassed the true grit of masculine writing to me and of course were uttered by the immortal Ernest Hemingway. The idea that when slightly inebriated the ideas would flow easily, albeit rather sloppily and you could bang out large sections of text that you could then go back and edit when sober and clean up. I want this. I strive for this. I try again and again for this. . . .Unfortunately for me, there is a stumbling block of the modern age.
In a word. . . .Porn.
I get myself a buzz going on Angry Orchard hard cider and then sit down to write. I am feeling creative. I am feeling energized. I am feeling like I could write great stuff. I am expecting the alcohol to loosen my inhibitions and allow me to write in a gushing flow of ideas that, while grammatically challenged, tap into some deeper portion of me cut off by my sober mind. I open up word, prepared and resolved to write and create mind blowing story lines and in depth characters that pull at the very soul of the reader and then. . .
It is not so much a conscious choice. It is not planned. It is not even anticipated really, it just happens. Somewhere between opening the word document and starting to write, I get distracted by sparkly things and wander off into a half drunk, gluttonous storm of porn. I lose track of ideas and think only in basic, primal urges I will not discuss here. . . but you get the basic idea.
I often wonder if Hemingway would have been able to hold fast to the efforts of writing had he had the internet and non-stop streaming porn of every flavor possible available at just a few clicks away. Would he have been able to resist the siren like lure and call of debauchery or would the world be starved of his brilliance due, at least in part, to Big Booty Latex Housewife Sluts parts 1-4?
It is a failing of mine but, once I reach a certain level of intoxication boobs are far more interesting than plot line development. I know. This is wrong but I also know, it is somewhat inevitable. The best intentions of banging out five thousand words while intoxicated becomes a point and click frenzy of clips, searching for the perfect one that fits my current mood.
I could be Hemingway . . . if it weren’t for “The Best of Big Boob Bangaroo”.
It just happens.
I swear to god I don’t even remember opening it half the time. .it just happens.